Sand Screamer

March 2002 By DAN NEIL

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We had driven north from Dallas across the Red River into Oklahoma, to Shay Clark's father's "farm"-although unless Carl McGuire is harvesting rusty auto parts, it's not really a farm, just 200 acres of rough brush and hardwoods on the banks of the Red River. Our mission was to drive Shay Clark's worldbeating sand dragster, appropriately named Foolish Pleasure, on a cleared patch of river bank.

But first, by way of making us feel welcome, Shay offered to let us ride her father's collection of ill-tempered horses. With the confidence of a man who has handled thousands of horsepower-how tough could one be?-I mounted the fortuitously named Lucky, who immediately bolted toward the nearest low-hanging branch in an attempt to scrape me from his back. Lucky only succeeded in splitting my scalp, resulting in a truly festive flow of blood.

What with the dogs, the horses, the swarms of red wasps, the leaky septic tank-and oh, yes, the buzzards-Carl's rural paradise had a distinctly purgatorial feel to it. We drove to the nearest Kmart for extra fire extinguishers.

Afterward, we towed the truck through the woods to the riverbank, all picturesque and smelly. Shay Clark's ride is an intimidating machine. First, because the driver's seat is right on top of the bell housing and only a couple of feet from the sweating, whirring supercharger. "It's got a blowout panel in front," Terry explains, "so it's not likely to come back at you if'n it blows." Second, the tube-frame chassis (and munchkin-size roll cage) is sequestered deep inside the fiberglass Baja-style body. I estimate my emergency escape time is 15 minutes (which would work out to medium-well). "This is your Halon," instructs Shay. "All the nozzles are pointed right at you."

The routine is this: Turn on the 24-volt (two batteries for extra-hot spark) starter system to roll over the motor; feed a little 114-octane racing fuel through the primer fuel system (instead of a squirt bottle), then toggle on the magneto. Hit the starter button, and- HONK!- the engine comes to life with a violent, pissed-off shudder and a crackling cannonade. To warm up the engine, you pull on the fuel-mix control, a syringe-style proportioning valve to the right of the seat, leaning out the mix until the motor is idling in loping, concussive breaths.

Terry gives me the signal, and I-mildly freaking out with Nomex-induced claustrophobia in 90-degree weather-pull the shifter into first and ease the truck to the line. Like a lot of drag cars, the truck uses a three-disc slipper clutch, requiring a brake-torque launch. With my left leg crushing the brake pedal, clamping four-pot calipers on four 12-inch Wilwood discs, I toe the throttle to about 3000 rpm (where Terry and I had set the clutch stall speed). The truck howls and bucks as all the slack is driven from the drivetrain. Terry says go, and I stab the throttle.

What happens next is a blur-literally, because the 35-inch, hand-carved Super Swampers up front throw a duneful of sand at my helmet with so much force it bends the diamond-pattern steel "mud flaps" back against the body. The overwhelming sensation-besides the cheek-flapping acceleration and aural overload-is one of sinking. The tires, inflated at only 5 psi, instantly score two deep trenches as the truck squats awkwardly under the pressure of the upturned exhaust stacks and weight transfer. With all this kinetic energy being dumped at once, you might expect the chassis to get wiggly or "rare up," as Terry says. But the suspension-leading links and a central A-arm up front and trailing links and a central A-arm in back-manages to keep all four wheels at work digging a hole to China. That's when it's fast, Shay says.

No more than one or two inputs on the Pinto steering rack-where would garage racers be without old Pinto racks?-and I'm over the line, demarcated by two sticks stuck in the sand. The coated, braided cable pulls the kill switch on the back of the truck-a trailer breakaway switch familiar to anyone who tows stuff-grounding out the magneto. I slap the brakes-that must be negative two g right there-and skid to a halt, switching off the fuel-mix control with a sigh of relief. Now, that was a very busy two seconds.